


Target Survival Maneuvers

by cereal



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor and Rose find themselves in the middle of a forest, being hunted for sport, with all the applicable cliches that go along with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't adult yet, but it will be, because how else are you going to share body heat?

He wakes up on a boat.

It's one of the first things he can pick out as his senses come back online -- subtle rocking motion, the sound of water and movement, a specific scent to the air -- yep, definitely a boat.

It takes effort to open his eyes and confirm it, but he forces himself, and the tiny part of him that isn't focused on swimming back to coherency preens to find out he's right.

Only, it's not _just_ a boat -- it's a yacht or a luxury liner or some other boat-type vessel that's built not only to move across water, but to broadcast affluence.

In front of him is a small round window set in a wall of polished wood, every inch of it gleaming and expensive as it showcases a view of the sea. The picture is skewed, perpendicular in his field of vision as he lies on his side on plush bedding.

There's a mattress or something equally soft underneath the fabric, which is a bit of blessing because the throbbing in his head indicates that he'd been knocked out the old fashioned way -- brute force instead of drugs. It's just as well his captors went that route, he could've metabolized most things meant to take down humanoid species, but hit him hard enough and even he falls like a sack of potatoes.

At least Rose is safe, she'd been having a kip in the TARDIS while he ran out to pick up a part and -- apparently -- get himself abducted. It adds a little bit of urgency to the need to escape, he'll need to get back before she starts to worry. He's already gone and set himself up for some teasing at least, and he can almost hear her -- "Who's jeopardy friendly _now_ , Doctor?" and she'll smile that teasing grin and then she'll groan as if she's hurt.

Wait.

Flipping over as fast as he can does nothing to help the pulsing in his skull. It worsens even further as he sees that lying next to him on the bed is Rose, and she's definitely not grinning.

Her eyes are closed, not in slumber but in pain, her mouth twisted into a grimace as she presses her palms to her temples, squeezing to combat what he's sure is a headache to rival his own.

"Rose?"

She groans again, but removes her hands from her head and opens her eyes to focus on him. "Are we on a boat?"

"We are."

"And this," she gestures at her head, "was to knock us out to get us on the boat?"

"Yep."

"Any chance this is you surprising me with a cruise to the Caribbean?"

"Not even slightly."

"Great."

Rose sits up gingerly, hands resting on her thighs.

"We're on a boat," she says, as if she's still processing it. Admittedly it _is_ something of a novelty. They end up in a lot of places without meaning to, but boats are rather infrequent.

"We are," he confirms again. "And T-Pain is nowhere in sight."

"Who?"

"T-Pain? Autotune? ' _I'm on a boat..._?'"

Rose shakes her head, lack of recognition written across her face.

"Ah, yeah, a little bit after your time on Earth, I think, sorry. I'll play it for you when we get back home --"

"Any ideas on that -- the getting back home?"

He's not looked around much beyond his initial observations, too focused on Rose once he'd realized she was with him, and he takes a few moments to view the space with a more critical eye.

Based on the size of the room, the speed of the boat and the resistance it's meeting against the water, he determines that it's not a large vessel, likely only two or three more rooms below deck. The air, beyond the smell of the sea, also smells faintly of cooking spices, and he'd guess that one of those rooms is a galley.

There's the muffled sound of footfalls above them and after a minute he's able to pick out that it's coming from four different sources -- so, at least four potential captors, then.

There's nothing chaining them to the bed and it's possible -- unlikely, but possible -- that there's nothing keeping them in the room either.

With a shrug, he stands, offering a hand to Rose and helping her do the same before crossing to the door.

"Here seems like a good place to start," he says, reaching for the doorknob. It turns easily and he opens it to a narrow hallway. He turns to Rose, eyebrows raised and she nods in agreement, following close to him as they leave the room.

To their left, the hallway ends in an open galley. There are two more doors opposite theirs, confirming his assessment of the boat's size.

To their right, the hallway leads to a short set of stairs with a door at the top. That'll be their way out, then.

They make their way up the stairs and this door, too, is unlocked, swinging wide to reveal bright sunlight and a blue sky that takes a moment to adjust to after the dim light below deck.

He reaches into his jacket, looking for the sonic, but it's been taken from him, in fact, everything has been taken from him — his pockets are empty. Instead he puts his hands out in front of him, nodding at Rose to do the same, and they move out onto the deck in a pose of surrender -- even if that's hardly the plan.

A stocky man in khaki trousers and an olive green button-up greets them with a broad smile.

"Ah, our guests are awake!" He looks a bit like Teddy Roosevelt, and speaks with an American accent. The Doctor can still feel the TARDIS, not nearby, but definitely on the same planet, she's not translating though -- this man is definitely speaking English. The Doctor files that detail away, hoping it'll provide some context for their current situation.

The man rushes across the deck to greet them, shaking the Doctor's hand and then Rose's. 

"Welcome, welcome," he says. "We were wondering when you'd be joining us; it's nearly time to eat."

The Doctor rubs at the back of his head, the small lump that's begun to throb. "Yeah, well, tend to sleep a bit when we're knocked unconscious."

The man has the decency to look sheepish. "Yes, we're sorry about that. Drugs of any kind were banned in the latest update to the rulebook, suppliers are still learning the best alternative methods."

Rose scoffs. "I'd chuck this one right out, _massive_ headache. _Massive_."

Before the Doctor can offer any assistance, Teddy Roosevelt's speaking again. "Some dinner should help clear that up! Here, come meet the rest of the players. We thought we'd dine on the deck," he gestures at a table on the far end of the boat, covered in a meal not unlike an American Thanksgiving, where three more men are seated. 

"Players?" Rose mouths at the Doctor as they're led to the group. 

The Doctor shrugs. There are plenty of games to be played on a boat -- some of them dangerous and some of them harmless -- and he's not got enough information to make a guess yet. 

They're introduced to the other men -- Lewis, Clark, and Ernest -- and learn that their original host is, to the Doctor's delight, actually called Teddy. 

It's not infrequent that the Doctor and Rose are guests of honor at a dinner -- it is, however, infrequent that their hosts take such in an interest in making sure they eat a well-balanced meal. And all the men seem to be doing just that as the dinner progresses.

"Are you sure you don't want another roll, Rose?" Teddy asks, "Carbohydrates are great for energy."

It’s suspect enough that the Doctor begins shuffling his food around his plate, using it as cover for the critical eye he’s casting across the boat. 

There’s a series of weapons lying on the ground opposite the table, but they’re in pieces — guns missing some of their parts, half-loaded magazines — indicating that this isn’t the full weapons store. 

Stacked in crates near the stern is — if their stamping is to be believed — food, the easily portable sort, as if the people consuming it intend to be on the move and traveling light. 

It’s not much to go on and the Doctor is only able to surmise that these men intend to go hunting. 

But then, out of the corner of his eye, he catches a pin on the lapel of Ernest’s jacket, the insignia ripping through his brain as he puts all the pieces together.

It’s not animals that are being hunted. 

It’s them. 

&&. 

Rose is on her second helping of apple crumble when she sees the Doctor go rigid in his chair out of the corner of her eye.

She pauses with a bite halfway to her mouth, turning to look at him more fully, and oh, no, whatever’s set him off, it’s not good. Eyes wide, fingers clenching around his fork, the Doctor looks like a bloke that’s well alarmed, which means Rose ought to be alarmed, too.

When he notices her looking at him, he gives a small shake of his head, barely imperceptible, and certainly not to the men around the table, but Rose is keyed to Doctor-in-danger behavior and this means he’ll fill her in later, now isn’t the time. 

It’s hard not to feel unsettled though, and Rose pushes her plate away, unable to eat another bite in the face of the anxiety that’s sparking in her stomach.  

Across from her, Teddy notices and smiles politely. “All full then? I suppose it is about time to be getting ready, sunset is only an hour away.”

With that, he rises from the table and the other men follow suit, dutifully picking up their plates and walking to the door to below deck. 

The Doctor does the same and Rose has no choice but to go along with it, all of them trooping below deck and depositing their dishes in the galley.

In the cramped hallway, each of the men peel off into rooms, and Teddy tells them to be ready in 30 minutes. “Then we’ll do weapons selection and get into place,” he says. “We still do a traditional shotgun start,” he adds, his voice a little bit wistful, as if this is nostalgic and something to be proud of. 

Rose feels the Doctor’s hand against her back, guiding her back into the room they’d woken in and shutting the door behind them. 

“What is it?” Rose asks, at the same time the Doctor says, “This is not good.”

“What’s not good? It looks like they’re hunting, are the animals dangerous or something?”

The Doctor shifts, eyes dropping to his trainers as he scrubs at the back of his neck with his hand. 

“We’re the animals, Rose. They’re hunting _us_.”

Rose feels her stomach drop into her knees, a heavy, abrupt feeling that has nothing to do with the rocking of the boat. 

“Us? What? Why? Why not just kill us now? They could’ve poisoned the food and been done with it, or…or…or…I don’t know, shot us while we were unconscious.”

“Ah, but that wouldn’t be sporting,” the Doctor tells her. “You heard Teddy, there’s a rulebook to be followed. Rose, this is a game to them.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t wanna play. Can’t we just tell that? That we’re not willing?”

The Doctor shakes his head. “I assume we were bought while we were unconscious, what Teddy said about suppliers, there’s a market for that on some planets. I, ehm, I didn’t realize we were on one. And anyway, you, Rose Tyler, were supposed to be in the TARDIS,” he points an accusing finger at her and she points one right back.

“And _you_ , Doctor, were supposed to be back in an hour, I waited another 105 minutes before I went looking.”

The Doctor furrows his brow. “105 minutes…?” His eyes brighten. “Watching 'Zoolander' again?”

Rose nods, unable to keep the small grin from her face. “I definitely feel like I’m taking crazy pills now. Why all the ceremony then? If we’re just to be sent off to be hunted?”

He begins walking the small room, picking up objects and discarding them. There’s not much there, just the trapping of an average bedroom, and it’s clear that there’s nothing that’ll be useful, not unless she’s going to need a pillow out there in the forest.

“Think of it like this,” he says, “when you play Monopoly, you have to set the game board up — everybody picks their piece, gets their money, you stack up the Chance cards, fill Free Parking — what they were doing before, feeding us, that’s setting up the game board.”

Rose plops down on the edge of the bed, watching as the Doctor repeats his circuit around the room. “My mum always cheated at Monopoly.”

“She would,” the Doctor snorts. 

“Is there anything like that? Anything we can do to tip the scales in our favor? I don’t even know the rules.”

Giving up on the room, the Doctor seats himself next to Rose before he tips backward on to the mattress and stares at the ceiling. 

“It’s a game called Two-One,” he says, his voice sounding tired and resigned. “There are different variations on that, two days and a night, two nights and a day, based on what Teddy said about starting at sundown, I’d say we’re in for the latter.”

“We’ll have a set amount of time to get into position — likely as far away as we can get from those blokes. When it’s time, a signal will go off, apparently in this case, a shotgun, and from there, we’ll spend two days, well, two nights and a day, trying to stay alive. If we make it to sunrise the day after tomorrow, we’ll be set free.” 

Rose flops back onto the bed, mirroring the Doctor’s position. “Anything else?”

The Doctor closes his eyes, drawing a deep breath before continuing. “We’ll each have a weapon, as Teddy mentioned. That’s part of the ‘game board’, they have to provide us with choices, and then we pick one, like you’d pick the thimble or the little shoe.”

“I liked the top hat,” Rose said. 

“Well, in this case the top hat is likely to be a pistol. There are variations, sometimes other, more defensive supplies are offered, a tent, food, things like that. Won’t know ’til we see what’s on offer which way we should go.”

The Doctor explains that he won’t be able to help her, she’ll have to make her selection entirely on her own, and they pass the rest of the time going over the various potential options and their relative benefits. 

After a bit, they hear footsteps above deck, and it’s not long before they need to join them. No point in putting it off, the Doctor tells her. If they don’t go up, they’ll only send someone to come get them, and they might be docked a penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct. It’s when he tells her that penalties may include amputation that she all but runs from the room, keen to keep all of her limbs. 

Above deck, the sun is beginning to set in the sky, streaking in pinks and red in a way that would normally be beautiful, if they weren’t in mortal danger. The table they’d eaten dinner at is now covered in various intimidating-looking weapons and accessories, some she recognizes and some she doesn’t.

Before she can ask after them, Teddy’s leading them both to the table for a closer look, and Rose immediately brightens as she notices the sonic placed among the items on offer. 

The Doctor catches it, too, nodding at her in confirmation as Teddy begins to speak. 

He outlines the rules — the Doctor will go first, then Rose, they’ll have five minutes to acquaint themselves with their selections and then the boat will be docked. They’ll disembark to take their positions and, only twenty minutes from now, the sun will set, the shotgun will sound, and the game will begin. 

Once he finishes, Teddy gestures to the Doctor to make his choice. 

The Doctor makes a show of deliberating and Rose figures he’s trying not to tip their hands with regard to how valuable the sonic is. After a few long moments, he finally selects it, gripping the tool and testing its weight before nodding at Teddy that he’s satisfied. 

Rose steps to the table to take her turn and the deliberation is anything but a show now. She immediately bypasses everything that looks like a gun. There’s a machete that catches her eye, but when she tries to picture herself using it, she can only picture blood and severed fingers. 

There’s a small tent and she reaches for it, hand hovering above the material hen she spots the Doctor shake his head imperceptibly out of the corner of her eye. She moves her hand across the table, keeping an eye out for movement from the Doctor, and when she reaches a small flat disc with a button in the middle, the Doctor nods, covering it with a cough. 

She scoops up the disc and presents it Teddy as her selection, trusting that whatever it does, the Doctor considers it valuable. Teddy nods his approval and Rose slips the disc into the back pocket of her jeans. 

From there, they’re instructed to take a seat, as Lewis steers the boat into a small wooden dock. They’re ushered off the boat, all four blokes wishing them good luck, and that’s it, they have a short amount of time to get into position and then the hunt will begin. 

The Doctor snags Rose’s hand immediately, tugging her into the forest at a fast pace.

“We’ll put as much distance as we can between us and them,” he says, “and then when the gun goes off, we’ll stay on the move.”

It seems like they’ve only been walking for a few seconds, though Rose knows it’s been longer, when the sun disappears completely and the faint sound of a shotgun blast echoes through the forest. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I've led some people astray here, this is The Most Dangerous Game only in the sense that the game is kissing, and the danger is how to get these two to do it.

The Doctor knows he should slow down, they’ve been moving for almost four straight hours and Rose is starting to tire, her steps slowing, posture drooping. 

He figures they've covered at least two-thirds of the island by now, though traveling by moonlight is impeding them a bit, making the forest harder to navigate. 

They've walked in wide zig-zags, the Doctor periodically using the sonic to eliminate their scent trail, planting false clues by breaking branches and crushing leaves before turning to walk in the opposite direction. 

It’s worked on the hunting group so far, they haven’t caught a glimpse of them since departing the docks. In fact, the only thing it _hasn’t_ worked on is one very persistent wolf cub. 

The thing’s not left their side since it joined them about a mile into their journey and, to the Doctor’s complete lack of surprise, it seems fond of Rose in particular, playfully nipping at her heels and circling her feet. 

An hour ago, when she still had a little energy left, they’d turned it into a game, Rose darting to the side or up ahead a small way and seeing how far she could get before the cub would rush to follow her. 

The farthest gap the animal had allowed was ten feet, which the Doctor sympathized with, because, stuck on this island like they were, he wasn’t prepared to let her get any farther than ten feet away either. Even, much to Rose’s dismay, for bathroom breaks.

Now, though, the cub’s actions seem less like larking about and more like he’s trying to tell them something. Well, tell _Rose_ something, she’s the Disney princess in this scenario, the beautiful young maiden befriending woodland creatures. They’re one musical number away from a bird landing right in her hand. 

The Doctor’s in the middle of scanning the treetops for a likely bird when Rose startles at his side.

“Oh! Where’s he gone?” she asks, pointing at a dense cluster of trees and bushes. “I thought he went through there, but I don’t see a gap…”

Rose crouches down, scanning the thicket at ankle level, but she’s right, there’s no sign the cub had been there, no hole in the greenery. 

“Maybe he went a different direction,” the Doctor says, rocking back on his heels and looking to either side. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere, you seem to have enchanted him, Rose Tyler.”

Rose shakes her head. “No…I don’t think so. He definitely went through here.”

She reaches a hand out into the bush before the Doctor can stop her, and both his hearts skip a beat when she yanks her arm back with a yelp.

“He licked me!” She grins, delighted, before pushing her hand through once more. “He’s in there, come on, help me look.”

The Doctor stoops down next to her, helping to shift branches and leaves out of the way so they can both get a look through. It takes a little work and they’re each in the bush up to their shoulders, but they finally catch sight of the cub, chasing his tail in happy circles in the middle of a small clearing. 

The area is round, about 15 feet in diameter, and flanked on all sides by the same thick bushes, trees of various heights intermingled to create a virtually invisible oasis in the middle of the forest floor. 

Rose pops her head from the thicket, rocking back on her heels, and the Doctor follows, both of them watching as the leaves and branches seem to mould right back into their original shape, leaving no trace they’d been disturbed. 

On a hunch, the Doctor sticks the sonic through the bushes to take a reading, and is delighted to see he’s correct — no sign that this part of the forest has ever been touched by a humanoid species. The rest of the woods had given off traces of hundreds of them, but this area — this area is still a secret. 

And that makes it the perfect place to camp for what remains of the night. 

"We'll stop here for a bit, you need to rest," he says. "And we both need to eat."

It takes more energy than Rose should be exerting to get them both through the thicket and into the clearing, but it’s worth it once they’re in. The floor of the clearing is covered in leaves and dirt, twigs and fallen branches strewn about, and there’s a decent-sized log near the middle. That’ll be the Doctor’s post, then. 

The cub is thrilled, pawing at Rose’s leg and panting happily until Rose scratches his head. Then he’s bounding off to an edge of the clearing, curling up in a crescent moon shape, apparently done for now. 

Rose, too, has had enough, slumping over to the floor by the log and leaning against it for support. 

“You didn’t happen to shove any of those pillows from the boat into your coat, did you?” she asks, trying to get comfortable against the wood. 

“No, but — neat trick of this coat, it doubles as a pillow.” He shrugs the coat off, balling it up as best he can before handing it Rose. 

She grins and shifts her head from where it’s tipped against the log to lie on the ground, slotting the coat bundle underneath her head. 

“Ohhh, that’s _much_ better, thanks,” she says, and the look on her face is nearly euphoric. “My head’s still killing me from earlier. You know I found a bump? Big, ol’ goose egg, right back here,” she turns to rub gingerly at the back of her head. 

The Doctor’s at her side immediately, gently probing his fingers over the bump and wincing to himself; he really should’ve checked her earlier. He runs the sonic over it a few times to help with the swelling, but it’s not as much as he’d like to be able to do.

“You seem alert, but I can’t rule out a concussion,” he says. “I’ll find us some food and then I’d like you to try and get some sleep. I’ll have to wake you up every so often though, just to check.”

Rose nods and then gently turns onto her back, staring up at the night sky as the Doctor begins a walk around the perimeter of the clearing. There’s loads of different types of bushes and trees, one of them is bound to house something edible. 

After a few minutes of the Doctor’s scanning, both with eyes and the sonic, the cub rouses from its slumber, darting back out through the thicket and returning to it moments later with a mouthful of berries and leaves that he deposits near Rose’s leg. 

The Doctor rushes over, inspecting the haul, and it’s only a quick pass with the sonic before he determines they’re safe to eat, similar in composition to Earth’s raspberries. It’s hardly going to be enough for even a single bite for one of them and the Doctor looks expectantly at the wolf.

“Gonna tell me where you got these?”

In response, the cub noses the berries closer to Rose. At the Doctor’s nod, she sits up and selects one of the berries, popping it into her mouth and chewing as she rubs the wolf behind his ears. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

The Doctor sniffs and then stoops down to regard the cub. “She’s gonna need more than that,” he tells the wolf and in response, the wolf nudges another berry toward Rose.

“Even more than _that_ ,” he reinforces, but this time the cub ignores him completely, the little monster.

“ _Ro-o-se_ , tell him to tell me where the food is or we’re going to eat him instead.”

“Doctor!” Rose swats at his arm. “That was very old you.” She turns back to the cub. “Can you should the mean old man where you got these?”

The cub looks reluctant, but dutifully troops to the edge of the bushes, casting an impatient look back to the Doctor before darting through the leaves.

The Doctor stands, addressing Rose. “I’ll be _right_ back.” He fiddles with the sonic and then hands it to her. “If I’m gone longer than ten minutes, press the button to send a signal your little friend will be able to hear, but that shouldn’t attract the hunters. If it’s ten minutes past them, well…give it two clicks to the left, should work to stun anybody you encounter as you leg it back to the boat. And you _will_ leg it back to the boat, got it?”

Rose rolls her eyes, but takes the sonic from him. “Got it.”

The Doctor nods, and then exits the clearing in the direction the cub had gone. The cub is sitting a few feet away and when he catches sight of the Doctor he darts through a pair of trees. The Doctor follows, walking behind the animal for half a minute before they both stop, a bush with bright purple berries like the ones he’d brought Rose in front of them.

Collecting berries is short work, and soon the bush is nearly a third bare and the Doctor’s pocket would be bulging if it weren’t bigger on the inside. Then the cub is darting off again, in the opposite direction of Rose.

“Hey,” the Doctor hisses, careful not to yell and attract attention. “Rose is _that_ way,” he points a thumb toward the clearing but follows the animal anyway. If he loses her little pet, Rose is bound to be displeased. 

The time the cub has led him to a shallow stream; the water reflecting the moonlight creates the effect of ink. Other than the one containing the berries, the Doctor’s pockets have been emptied either by the hunters or their suppliers, and he has no way to transport water back to Rose.

He thinks about telling the wolf that, that his genius little plan is missing one key component, when the the cub stomps into the stream and back out again, shaking off its fur with a pointed look at the Doctor.

“What was that for — _ohhhh_ , right.”

The Doctor strips off his tie, wadding it into an empty pocket, and his suit jacket and his oxford follow quickly. He replaces the jacket over his t-shirt, but leaves the button-up clutched in his hand. He douses the clothing in the stream, sopping up as much water as he can, before rising to walk back to the clearing. 

The cub follows behind him and when they return, ducking through the bushes the same way they came out, Rose’s greets them both with a wide smile.

“Any trouble?” she asks, taking in the Doctor’s wet shirt.

“None, if you don’t count this one’s insufferable arrogance,” he says, thumbing at the wolf with his free hand. 

The Doctor takes the sonic back from Rose, adjusting the setting before running it over his wet shirt to sterilize it.  

“You’ll have to wring it out over your mouth to get anything, but this, with the berries, should be enough to keep us both going.”

He collects a few leaves, dumping the berries from his pocket onto the makeshift plate and they quickly tuck into the meal. 

&&.

Rose has just finished the last of the food, the Doctor’s wet shirt laid across the log in case they need it again, when she feels herself nodding off where she sits. 

The Doctor notices, encouraging her to lie down on his coat again and get some rest.

“I’ll be right here, and I’ll wake you again in an hour to make sure you’re not suffering a concussion. The sun will be up in about five hours and we should get going a little before that.”

Rose nods, turning on to her back once before before noticing something hard digging into her backside. She shifts her hips up, pulling the small disc from the weapons selection from her back pocket and handing it wordlessly to the Doctor. She still needs to ask him what that does, but the pull of sleep is too strong, so she nestles into the fabric that smells like the Doctor and is asleep within a few minutes.

When she next opens her eyes, it’s to the feeling of her face being licked. She’s had several dreams about the Doctor’s tongue, and none of them involve him licking her — or, well…not on her _face_ — so she’s definitely awake and that’s definitely the little wolf cub.

She casts her eyes down, confirming her assessment, and the animal pulls back happily, the Doctor crouching on the balls of his feet just behind him. When he notices Rose is awake, he scoots forward, kneeling in front of her as she pushes herself up onto her hands.

The moon is still high in the sky, the darkness of night still blanketing the clearing, and the sonic, when it begins to glow in front of her, makes her slam her eyes shut.

“Sorry, and sorry to wake you, too,” he says. “This’ll just be a moment, just need to check your pupils, ask you a few questions.”

Rose pries her eyes back open, keeping them wide and letting the Doctor inspect in the sonic’s blue glow.

“Perfect, nothing abnormal,” he says, switching the light off. “Now, how are you feeling, any dizziness?”

“Nope.”

“Can you count to ten?”

“1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10.”

“What’s your name?”

“Rose.”

“Where do you live?”

“A time-traveling blue police box.”

“Who’s the most handsome bloke you know?”

“You — um — _you_ need to know that because…?”

He grins. “Just checking to make sure your short term memory’s not been affected. Everything seems to be in order. You can go back to sleep, if you like, or there’s more berries, if you’re hungry.” He gestures at the small pile of them on the leaves. 

She’s not, but she eats a few anyway, to cover whatever middle-of-the-night morning breath she’s probably got. She’s still tired, but she wants to make sure the Doctor’s doing all right — he’d taken a knock on the head, too, and probably sat up worrying this whole time.

“Ta,” she says. “Anything happen while I was out?”

He shrugs. “There was some movement outside the clearing about half an hour ago, I think it was Lewis and Clark. They didn’t even slow down though, we should be safe for the rest of the night, provided we don’t draw attention to ourselves.”

She frowns, rubbing at her arms over her jumper. It’s gotten colder while she was asleep, a chill working its way underneath the fabric of her clothes. “Suppose that means a fire’s out of the question then?

“Why, are you cold?”

“No, just…thought it’d add to the atmosphere?”

“Rose, it’s OK if you’re cold,” he says, and then moves to shrug off his suit jacket. He gives her shoulder a light tap, encouraging her to lie back once more and then carefully drapes the jacket over her. “There, does that help?”

She forces herself not to sniff the jacket, but draped over her like it is, his coat balled up underneath her head, she’s surrounded by the smell of the Doctor, the air she breathes permeated by his scent.

“A little bit, thanks,” she says, “but that just leaves you in your t-shirt.”

“I’ll be fine,” he tells her. “Go back to sleep.”

When she wakes next, it’s to the sight of the Doctor scratching the wolf cub on the belly, goosebumps across her skin. The Doctor glances her direction and seems surprised to see that her eyes are open.

“It’s only been ten minutes, surely you need more sleep than that,” he says.

She shrugs, pulling the jacket up higher around her shoulders. “I do, it’s just…I’m still cold.”

He looks back at his oxford, still damp and lying across the log.

“I could dry that with the sonic, but we might need more water,” his tone is apologetic. 

“I’ll be fine, it’s fine,” she says, making a show of closing her eyes, trying to force sleep to come. But five minutes later, she’s started to shiver and it’s no use pretending. 

The Doctor looks at her like he’s debating something, and then he nods to himself, face hardening in resolve. 

“Here, just…shift over,” he says and then he's climbing behind her, sandwiching her body between his own and the log. “That should block some of the chill,” he gestures over her body to the log, and when he drops his arm, he leaves it resting across her waist. “And I’ll block the rest of it.”

She _does_ feel warmer, she has to admit, but it’s nothing as simple as how he’d put it. The feel of him behind her, _spooning_ her, has caused all sorts of reactions inside of her, blood sloshing through her veins, nerves lighting up. They spend plenty of time touching, but it’s always holding hands, maybe an arm slung around her shoulders once in a while. 

This — _this_ is something else entirely. She’s certainly not going to be able to sleep like this, but she forces herself to try anyway, shutting her eyes and breathing deeply. 

After a few moments of fruitless effort, she gives herself over to analyzing the situation. If she can view it in cold, hard, factual terms, maybe she can dismiss it.

First, the Doctor’s chest. It’s pressed up against her back. She can feel the way his torso lifts slightly off the ground, his left hand must be under his head. 

His right hand…his right hand is curled under her waist, a barrier between her body and the ground, his thumb drawing absent-minded patterns up and down her ribcage through her jumper. 

There’s nothing against her bum, he must have his hips angled back and, in moment of mad impulse, she shifts backward slightly, bringing everything lined up, tip to toe.

The Doctor makes a soft sound behind her, and if she could hear it again, play it back endlessly, she might say it sounded content. 

She remembers mornings like this with Mickey, curled up in front of him on the threadbare mattress in his dingy flat, his erection a slight pressure against her bum. It was never very insistent, as she’d never been very keen on morning sex, too preoccupied with the need for more sleep, the thought of bad breath and all the things she had to do that day ruining the mood. 

But still, it was nice, a reminder of his desire for her, even if it had less to do with her and more to do with the natural body processes of human blokes. 

She’s not entirely sure the Doctor’s got anything between his legs to _get_ an erection. She’s not entirely sure he doesn’t, though. When she’d changed him into those pajamas on Christmas what seems like ages ago, she’d left his pants on, but there’d been a…bulge. A distinctly shaped bulge, and anyway, the rest of him looked human, what’s to say that didn’t, too?

On another mad impulse — and, really, she’ll need to get those under control if they’re going to make it off this island alive — she wiggles her bum against his hips, a slow circular motion that she’s going to claim was just settling in if he questions it. 

It’s difficult to say if she feels anything particularly male back there, but the Doctor draws a quick breath, his hand slipping from under her waist to skate across her stomach to the opposite hip, stilling her movements. 

Time stretches to a syrupy crawl, every tiny detail of the situation called up into sharp relief. The feeling of the Doctor’s chest expanding and contracting behind her as he breathes, her heart pounding in her ears, the soft snores of the wolf cub a few feet away, all of it so loud, so obvious sounding that she’s sure the hunters will be here any moment. 

How could they not be? Can’t they hear the rasp of the Doctor’s hand over her jumper, the way it echoes like a cannon through the clearing? Can’t they see the way she’s lit up in the night, glowing from the Doctor’s nearness? Can’t they smell her arousal?

Oh god, can _he_? Can he smell her arousal?

She shifts her legs, trying to alleviate the pressure growing between them, but the Doctor takes it as another attempt to shift her bum, his hand tightening on her hip, his middle finger slipping between her jumper and the waistband of her jeans to land on a sliver of skin. 

He curls the finger up, nail scratching lightly across the skin of her stomach, and she can’t help the shaky breath she lets out at the feeling.

Behind her, the Doctor shifts his head, nose parting her hair until she can feel his breath on the back of her neck, the sensation snapping like firecrackers across her skin. His lips press softly to the bump on the back of her head, then lower, his mouth on the back of her neck, before he pulls back slightly. “Go to sleep, Rose,” he says, voicing low and rumbling across her skin. 

Somehow, she manages to drop off, and the next time she’s aware of the Doctor, it’s to the feeling of his palm rubbing softly across her belly. 

“Wake up, Rose,” he says gently and he seems to sense when she does, because his hand stops moving. “Can you turn over?”

She does, jostling his arm where it still lays across her waist, until she’s lying on her side, face to face with him, their knees bumping as her nose rests inches from his own.

“Open your eyes wide,” he says.

She does, and his eyes dart back and forth between her own. “Still no pupil dilation, that’s good. Do you still know your name?”

She laughs softly. “Rose Tyler.”

“Right in one,” he says, and his breath ghosts across her face, the faint scent of berries following behind the warmth. “And how does this feel?”

His hand drifts up her spine, twining in her her hair before the pads of his fingers skim over the bump on her head.

“ _Great_ ,” she breathes, caught up in the feeling of his fingers in her hair before rushing to cover her slip. “I mean…it feels fine, doesn’t hurt so much anymore.”

“That’s a good sign,” he says, lips barely moving, voice a quiet murmur. 

His fingers shift lower, nails scratching lightly at the back of her neck, around her hairline, before tracing the shell of her ear. 

“And how does… _this_ …feel?” 

Rose’s body is electric, every inch of her buzzing and pulsing and awake, but she can’t quite make the words to answer him. She takes a deep breath, shifting so her hands rest in between their chests before carefully, slowly, moving her left hand to follow the length of his bare arm where it stretches to reach her.

She runs her fingers against the skin, the soft hair there, until she meets the sleeve of his t-shirt and continues up to his shoulder.

The Doctor is frozen next to her, he doesn’t even seem to be breathing, but his body radiates tension as her hand moves past his shoulder, until her fingers rest against the side of his neck, his pulse thumping erratically beneath them.

“It feels…um. You should see for yourself,” she says, in a fit of bravery. And then she moves her fingers to his earlobe, softly pinching the skin before running the nail of her index finger around the shell of his ear. 

He shudders softly, eyes falling shut for a moment, and she lets her hand continue its journey until it matches the way he’s holding her, each of them cupping the back of the other’s head. 

There’s only a matter of inches between them and she raises her chin, bringing them the slightest bit closer, in the boldest invitation she can bring herself to make. 

She waits, each second expanding between them, filling with hope and need and love before floating away. She can’t make the final move, she won’t, because she’s not the one that was holding them back before this. There’d been an unspoken understanding — they couldn’t be like this, _he_ couldn’t be like this, and if the tide was going to turn now, it had to be by his hand.

Just as she’s ready to give up, roll back to her side, and pretend to sleep, she feels him shift, his mouth moving closer to hers in a way she can only sense, because at some point, she’d closed her eyes. 

Then, he draws a soft breath, head tipping forward until his lips are barely a hair’s breadth from her own. She has a mad thought that they’ll go on like this forever, a fractional distance breached each time, mouths never meeting, as the space between them divides itself smaller and smaller to infinity. 

It’s so close, he’s so close, and she can’t say that it wasn’t her that moved, just that somehow, in a movement that felt like an eternity and like an instant, his mouth was pressed to hers. 

For a moment, it’s a gentle, unmoving kiss, and every cell in her body seems to strain to call him closer, panicking as it has the opposite reaction, his head pulling back, only to reposition his lips against hers at an angle. 

His mouth presses lightly to her bottom lip, kissing her in a gentle, tentative way as she begins to work her mouth against his own, mirroring his actions, pulling apart and coming back together, in soft, uncertain nips. 

On one pass, she feels his lips part, mouth opening against hers as he hesitantly touches his tongue to her bottom lip. They’ve been slow so far, each movement careful, reserved, but this — this is too much to consider, she has no measured response for this, and her tongue is in his mouth before she can figure out how it got there. 

It’s quicker then, sharper, needier, hands grasping in hair to pull closer, hips aligning, her hot mouth against the contrast of his cooler one, and his tongue, oh god, his tongue, the way it battles back against her own, slips into her mouth. 

There’s the wet sounds of their mouths moving against each other, teeth on lips, the angles aligning and re-aligning as they part and return, part and return, the long, slow strokes of his tongue, and the short nipping kisses of his lips.

She wants more, she wants _a lot_ more, but when he begins to gentle the kiss, ratcheting it down in urgency, she follows his lead until they’re wrapped around each other, the Doctor on his back and her head pillowed on his chest.

“Go to sleep, Rose,” he says.

And somehow, she does.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I said this was only going to be three chapters, and three chapters it is, even if this one is 10,000 words long.

&&.

The moon is beginning to sink lower in the sky, making room for the sun, as the Doctor finds himself in a staring contest with the little wolf cub.

He’s certain he’s imagining it — well, _nearly_ certain, _almost_ certain — but the cub’s gaze seems to be judgmental, condemning the Doctor for his actions earlier in the night.

The actions that had resulted in his tongue in Rose’s mouth.

It’s not like he needs the wolf’s help feeling guilty, he feels guilty all on his own — taking advantage of the nearness Rose’s need for warmth had required, the vulnerability of the situation they’re in, she literally has a _head_ injury, and there he is all storming in with his mouth and his hands and his embarrassing needy noises.

He’s had thoughts — of course he’s had thoughts — of eventually giving into the tension between them, late nights in the dim light of the console room while Rose slept somewhere down the hall, it’s natural to let the mind wander. And his mind wanders in all sorts of different directions all the time; he’s thought of most things at least once.

And some things, like what Rose might look like when she comes, so much more than once.

But he certainly hadn’t thought he’d _act_ on any of those thoughts, at least, not like this. Not without some adrenaline surge to blame it on, some dire, heat-of-the-moment circumstance. No, this — _this_ was quiet and slow and deliberate.

He’s not ready for _this_. Or, rather, he’s _too_ ready. His hearts are already there, poetic cliches where they beat in time with hers. His hands are there, too, reaching for greedy touches at every opportunity. His head, his gut, his cock, all ready, all reaching out for Rose with every second that passes.

It’s just his legs, his restless, wayward legs, itching to run, to protect the rest of him and take him far away from the pain that will inevitably follow. He won’t really run from her, he can’t, but his legs — they can find the strength to create distance, a small retreat here, a sidestep there.

As if it won’t already cause the dimming of his entire universe when they someday part. And they will — it’s an eventuality, a certainty, not just a worst case scenario.

For now though, he has to protect her — and himself — in a much more obvious way: from the men that hunt them.

He’d initially thought to stay in the clearing and wait out the clock. It’s unlikely they’ll be discovered, not if they haven’t been already, but this game, the one he’s only heard stories of before — those stories never end with the targets alive and being taken home.

Prideful hunters won’t just stop when the clock ends, he’s sure of it. They’ll be hunted down regardless, and the tales the hunters will spin when they return will be of kills within the first few hours.

No, they need to get to the boat, and they need to alert the Shadow Proclamation. Murder in the name of battle, that’s one thing — and doesn’t he know it, doesn’t it haunt him, strangle him, like a vicious ghost — but murder as a game, that’s against intergalactic law, no matter how sporting these blokes seem about it.

With a deep exhale, one he pictures carrying away his longing, and a slow inhale, breathing in acceptance of their lives the way they need to be, he tightens the hand wrapped around Rose’s waist and shakes her gently.

“Rose,” he whispers. “Rose, wake up, we need to move.”

She wakes with a start, hand clenching into a fist where it lays across across his chest. He’s done that to her, installed a program of tension and fear that’s always running like a current just beneath her skin.  

"What's going on?" Rose's words are slurred with sleep and he can tell the moment she realizes her position, and his own.

He feels it cascading through her body, the toe of her trainers flexing against his calf, her hips pressing down into his side, her head shifting against his chest, all of her senses coming online until she's pushing up off, and away, from him.

"Are they here?" she says when he doesn't answer her. "Oh, god, this is bad, Doctor, let's go."

She's on her feet in seconds, his jacket tumbling from her shoulders as her eyes cast around the clearing, looking for the threat.

He rises to stand in front of her, joints popping with satisfying noises from the way they've been in one position for so long -- not _too_ long though, nothing, frankly, could be long enough when it comes to the feeling of Rose pressed against him.

"They're not here," he says, unable to stop himself from smoothing her hair down.

Her gaze, which had fallen to the little wolf cub circling their ankles, snaps back to his and he can tell once more when realization hits from the way her cheeks grow pink in the early morning light.

This time though, she's not realizing their current position, but remembering the one they'd found themselves in last night.

Before she can bring it up, he's spilling out more words.

"Yet," he says. "They're not here _yet_. But we need to go before they are."

Her head tilts and she's considering pushing him, he can tell.

"Doctor ... "

"Later," he says, and then gentles his tone, forcing himself to speak the word again, slower. "Later?"

She nods and he ducks down to snatch his coat and jacket from the ground, pulling them on before before taking his shirt from the log. It's mostly dry now and he wads it up, stuffing it into his pocket. Then he grabs her hand, leading her back toward the bushes they'd entered through.

"I'll go first," he says, "wait for my hand."

With that, he pushes his way through the leaves, tumbling out in a pile of greenery and twigs. Next to him, the wolf cub exits much smoother, looking up at him condescendingly as he sticks a hand back through to help Rose.

She, too, manages her exit with more grace than him and soon they're back in the thick of the woods.

He navigates them back to the bush with the berries from last night, stuffing one pocket full of them as Rose picks a handful to eat now.

Then it's a quick detour at the stream where he re-wets his shirt, before squishing it back into another pocket and drinking his fill as Rose does the same.

As they walk -- he's got a vague plan to head toward the shore, but it's going to have to be the long way around, any hunter worth his weight would be sure to cover the escape routes -- Rose begins to play with the cub once more, and soon they've gone at least a few miles in relative silence.

The sun has risen while they've walked, bright and high in a clear blue sky, and he chastises himself that what they're doing with this beautiful day is running for their lives, _again_ , instead of having a picnic or lawn bowling or, well, having a nice outdoor shag on his coat.

Rose seems to notice his mental flogging and she reaches out to grab his hand. She tightens her fingers around his, a brief squeeze that, coupled with the small smile on her face, is clearly intended to be reassuring.

"Don't worry about it," she says. "I wanted it, too."

He nearly laughs, only Rose Tyler could _want_ to run for her life -- oh, _ohhhh_.

Well, that's a horse of a different color.

It's not that he didn't think she wanted that with him. He thought she might actually, faint traces of human arousal, and far less faint traces of human flirting, the signs were there.

He just thought she might, perhaps, be a little bit more conflicted about it.

This, though, is a sort of unwavering belief in the rightness of it. She doesn't seem concerned on her own behalf, only about what it might be doing to him.

And so now she's saving him.

From himself.

Again.

He will never, in a million lifetimes, deserve her.

He sees now, as his hand squeezes hers back reflexively, that what he _will_ do is take whatever she's willing to offer.

Before he can do ... whatever it was he was going to do with this new realization, there's a rustling in the trees a hundred yards ahead.

Rose, with her depressing human senses, can't hear it, but he can -- the sound of two men that are close and moving closer.

They need to run, _now_.

With one last quick listen to confirm their direction, he tightens his hand around hers once more and darts off opposite the noise, Rose falling into a run beside him with ease.

Running like this, it’s not a time for talking, and Rose keeps pace as best she can, their strides evening as they navigate trees and the detritus of the forest floor.

The sound of the hunters abruptly changes direction — they’ve attracted attention instead of avoided it, and he pushes himself to run harder, go faster, willing Rose’s legs to keep up as his coat flaps behind him.

A gunshot echoes around them, the loud bang of a shotgun followed quickly by something smaller, a pistol, a handgun, something going off in rapid succession and so, so close to them.

He hasn’t felt the air ripple with a bullet yet, but the shots are getting louder and louder and louder, the sound of Rose panting next to him nearly drowned out as his mind tumbles to anticipate each shot.

With another boom, the bark from a tree to their right splinters in time to a bullet passing through it and Rose yelps, swerving into him as instinct propels her to change course.

He’s lost all sense of trajectory now, they’re no longer running toward the boat, they’re running away from the guns.

Another bullet whizzes by, lower this time, and the Doctor feels his stomach clench, his eyes searching for the wolf cub, but he’s still thundering ahead of them and shows no signs of being struck.

They need a diversion, and quickly.

“Your pocket,” he grinds out, “Rose, your pocket, get the disk.”

Rose looks confused, her pace slowing imperceptibly and he tugs on her hand to make up for it.

“Your weapon,” he says, “the disk, get it out, _now_.”

She nods, her head bobbing unstably as they continue darting around trees, and then she’s groping in her back pocket with her free while he fumbles for the sonic with his own.

A few strokes with his finger and he’s got the right setting, pointing it with a jerk at the disk Rose has unearthed and zapping it quickly.

“On three, press the button and throw it over your shoulder,” he says around uneven breaths as two more bullets whiz by. “Then cover your ears and don’t stop running. Rose, you have to keep running.”

Rose nods, too winded to speak, and he begins to count.

“One — two — three —“

Rose’s fingers press the button down as she flings the disk over her shoulder, dropping his hand to cover her ears. He quickly pockets the sonic and does the same with his own hands. It’s not going to help much, but if the hunters are as close as their bullets would imply, they should catch the bulk of it.

Five more seconds pass, echoed in the beats of his hearts as their feet continue to pound the forest floor, and the disk off goes off with a squeal.

It’s a noise bomb, one he’s modified, and it fills everything around them, screeching loud and high and unwavering. The air itself seems to vibrate with it and his mind immediately filters out all sound until he’s running in complete silence save the noises of his own body.

With a grunt, he reaches to grab Rose’s hand again, faltering only when he realizes it’s still pressed to her ear. As he retracts his arm something warm and heavy blooms in his bicep, a numbness he can’t stop to quantify.

The squealing continues for another 30 seconds, an entire half a minute where he only hears the pounding of his hearts, only sees Rose at his side as they run through the forest.

As abruptly as the noise started, it stops, and his hearing rushes back to him, overlaid with a dull ringing in his ears that he discards in favor of listening for gunfire, the clatter of hunter’s boots, any sign of danger.

There’s nothing, there’s blissfully, miraculously, nothing, and next to him, Rose winces, dropping her hands from ears, and he immediately twines their fingers together.

He wants to keep running like this, full out, but Rose is slowing slightly, her body unwilling to keep up where her mind knows she needs to. They’ve got maybe another ten minutes of this and even her adrenaline will falter.

With a short bark of her name, he zips to the left, taking a winding path that he intends to eventually lead them back to the clearing, so long as they can avoid the hunters again.

It takes fifteen minutes — he should’ve known not to underestimate her — but eventually Rose begins flagging in earnest. Their fast pace has led them over a couple of miles in half the time it took them earlier and he slows for a moment to get his bearings. The sanctuary of their clearing is still a mile and a half away, but there’s no sign of the hunters. The noise bomb, at least for now, appears to have worked to distract and disorient the men.

At his side, Rose tugs on his hand, pulling him from his position to continue along at a jog.

“I can keep going,” she breathes. “Slower, but I can keep going.”

He nods, a mixture of pride at her strength and regret that he forces her to showcase it so often blanketing him, and he brings himself up to lope beside her.

It takes another fifteen minutes, but eventually they reach their clearing, the cub darting through the bushes and back out again to give them the all-clear. Then Rose is tumbling through the plants with the Doctor right behind her.

He scans with the sonic once more, and this time, there are traces of human presence in the area, but it’s only Rose — the area still hasn’t been discovered.

Rose collapses heavily on the ground, leaning against the log as she pants to get her breath back and he follows, sitting down next to her.

His eyes run across her body, checking for injury, but there isn’t anything beyond a few cuts and scrapes from the forest — nothing, thankfully, that she’d received from the hunters.

Rose gasps and his eyes immediately flit to her face, worried he’s missed something, but instead she’s staring at his upper arm. There’s a small patch of skin visible through his coat and jacket, the fabric around it soaked through with blood.

He’s been shot.

And suddenly he feels it, pain blooming out from the wound on his left arm, the arm closest to Rose, as he raises his right hand to calm her.

“It’s OK,” he says, in the face of her panic. “I’ll fix it, it’s OK.”

Rose is shaking her head violently, protesting. “No, no, no, Doctor, you’ve been shot, oh god, oh shit.”

Her hands fumble to probe at the wound, gentling when he whistles a breath through his teeth.

The bullet had gotten him right at the cuff of his white t-shirt, the snowy bright hem of it stained red in a much more violent-looking way than the browns of his jacket and coat atop it.

With a wince, he turns his arm from her grip, trying for a better look at the wound. There’s an entry point, but no clear exit, and he mentally groans at the thought of digging the bullet out or, worse, having Rose do it.

He gestures opposite the clearing, indicating she should turn her head.

“Don’t look,” he says.

He can tell she’s ready to protest, but he cuts her off.

“Rose, please, just — just don’t look.”

Resigned, Rose turns away from him, and he bites back a moan as his fingers probe at the wound. There’s no bullet, or no _one_ bullet, instead tiny pieces of it are scattered throughout. His index finger is sticky with blood and he presses down hard on a small piece of bullet, his teeth gritting as he attempts to secure it enough to pull it out.

With a sucking sound that makes him wish he’d had Rose cover her ears, too, he removes the shard and brings it closer to his face. His tongue darts out to taste it, parsing through the tang of blood as he processes it.

Well, this, at least, is good news.

“Rose,” he says, drawing her attention back. “It’s OK, it’s organic.”

She laughs grimly, a haunted sound he’s going to hear in his dream for weeks.

“Oh, good,” she says. “At least these murderers are eco-conscious.”

In spite of himself, he smiles.

“No, not like that,” he tells her. “Bullets like these become all the rage in the 23rd century. The animals — they, their bodies metabolize the bullets as they’re…dying. Makes cleaning — and — and eating much tidier.”

Rose’s eyes widen in horror, but he shakes his head.

“It’s good news though,” he says. “My body will take care of it, I just — I need to rest. I’ll clean it and then use the sonic to speed up the process. It’ll be fine, Rose. I’ll be fine.”

She lets out another choked laugh.

“Sure,” she says. “You’ve only been shot, and there are four men still looking to kill us, but yeah, it’ll be _fine_ , ta.”

With his uninjured arm, he uses his hand to grip Rose’s shoulder.

“It _will_ ,” he insists. "We'll deal with this. Tomorrow by this time we'll be back in the TARDIS, the Shadow Proclamation will have been alerted, and this -- right now -- is the last time this game will ever be played."

Rose nods. "All right," she says, but her voice is watery.

He gives her a small smile, trying to concentrate on anything but the pain in his arm.

After another moment of silence, one he fills by not breaking Rose's gaze, determined to reassure her, her eyes flit to his arm.

"You ruined your coat," she says. "And your suit."

He looks down, taking in the gashes in the fabric, and shrugs. "Nah, the TARDIS'll fix it. Or you can, you're gonna have to sew me shut here anyway in a minute. That'll be good practice for my coat."

Rose's eyes widen, the blood draining from her face, and he immediately feels guilty.

"I was just joking," he rushes to explain. "My body will close it, all on its own."

This time, Rose's eyes narrow at him, her lips twisting angrily. "That was mean," she says heatedly, and then, after a moment, glances at the wound again.

"I could've," she adds. "I _would've_ , if you needed me to." The way she says it is almost to herself, rather than him, like she's confirming it internally and he raises his uninjured arm so that his hand can rest on hers in her lap.

"I know," he says.

"Is there anything I can do now?" she asks after a moment, dropping her hand down from where she's been worrying the edge of her thumb with her teeth. "Do you want me to help get your jackets off?"

He glances down at his sleeves again, the blood matting the fabric, and, blimey, this is gonna hurt.

"Yeah," he says, drawing a breath. "Just -- gentle."

She nods, nearly rolling her eyes, like it had gone without saying and then they're standing.

He shimmies out of the sleeve of his coat and jacket on his uninjured arm, and Rose grips the fabric with one hand, pulling at the shoulder of the other side slowly.

She works the material down as best she can, moving in incremental movements until it's cleared the wound, and then tugging it the rest of the way off until both garments land at their feet.

It hadn't hurt nearly as much as he'd thought it would and he gives Rose a grateful smile, but she doesn't notice, too preoccupied staring at his arm, now bare except for the sleeve of his white t-shirt.

The are smears of blood along his arms from removing his jackets and the wound looks all the more gruesome for them.

"Now I'll just clean it and hit with the sonic," he says, interrupting Rose's thoughts and drawing her attention. "Then I'll need to rest."

Rose nods. "Yep, here, I'll help." She stoops down, grabbing his coat and fishing the wet shirt out of a pocket. She stares at it for a moment and then grips the material tightly, the shoulder in one hand and a sleeve in the other.

Gritting her teeth, she gives it a solid, hard yank, and the threads at the shoulder seam separate and she's got a detached sleeve dangling wetly from her fingers.

"Hey," he says. "I liked that shirt."

She drops the body of it onto the log and then turns back to him.

"Me, too," she says, dabbing at his wound with the cuff, mindful of the position of the buttons there. "Nice and tight."

He winces as she presses a little harder, trying to clean up some of the blood that's already dried, and he's grateful for the distraction of her voice.

"Still been _looking_ and _liking it_ then, Rose Tyler?" he says, a deliberate, Cassandra-inflected tone to his voice.

"Gross," Rose mutters, and he can't tell if it's in reaction to what he's said or the state of his arm.

"Could use a flap of skin right now, huh?" he says, keen to keep conversation going. He's been _shot_. Shot! _Him_! "Pop it right over that wound, skin graft, my cell's would pick it up, of course, just bond right to the little flap, welcome it to the family --"

"Still gross," Rose says, cutting him off.

"Right," he says, eyes darting upward to peer at the sky. It's barely afternoon yet and they won't be able to try for the boat again for at least another 12 hours, when it's been dark for a while and he's healed. Well, he should be healed after _eight_ hours, body like his, healing a bullet is all in a day's work. That's a human work day, right? Eight hours?

"Doctor," Rose says, breaking him out of his thoughts. "You OK? You went quiet there."

He drops his eyes back down to her and then his arm. His wound's been cleaned as well as he could hope, and Rose has the bloodied sleeve pinched in her fist. She's only really dirtied the cuff and she notices him look at it.

"Didn't know if you'd need a bandage," she shrugs. "Thought you could dry this out and use it."

"Perfect," he says with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "This next bit might ... smell a little."

"What, really?"

"No."

"I think I've found another place for that flap of skin," she says, and taps her index finger deliberately over his lips.

"Oh, you'd never," he teases.

"Wouldn't I?"

"Not if you want a repeat of last night," he says, the words out of his mouth fluidly, on the wheels of their banter, and he feels his stomach pitch in response.

Rose takes a deep breath and he watches, his own breath held, to see where she goes next.

"Nah, not right now," she says. "That would direct your blood a little south. Heal up first, then we'll talk."

A wince skitters across his face, _talking_ , right, of course, he had said they'd talk, and, wait, _where_ is his blood going? Oh. _Oh_.

"We don't have to talk," she says after a moment, either correctly or incorrectly interpreting his silence, he can't even tell himself anymore. "I -- I don't need to. I know what I want, you know?"

He gives her a soft smile. "I do, too," he says. "And we will talk. Or we won't. But right now, I need to sterilize and cauterize and all sort of other -izes this little bullet wound, and then I need to take a little Time Lord nap."

Rose grins. "Yeah, we do want that little Time Lord rested, don't we?" and her gaze drops deliberately to the front of his trousers.

That's twice -- _twice_! -- she's referenced his ... little Time Lord in a minute and it's doing funny things to all his organs, sending everything inside of him sloshing around on waves of panic and fear and arousal and happiness.

With a mock-stern raise of his eyebrows, he fumbles for the sonic and gets the setting right, passing it slowly over his arm with a low buzz.

When he's done, Rose helps him tie the shirt sleeve like a bandage over the wound. His body's already beginning to feel heavy with the weight of recuperation, and he lowers himself down to lean carefully against the log.

Rose sighs and drops down next to him.

"That's hardly comfortable," she says, maneuvering him gently by the shoulder, mindful of his wound, until he lies on his back, his head in her lap.

With a tired noise, he reaches again for the sonic, twisting the settings and then aiming it at a patch of bushes above where the little wolf cub lies sleeping. An image flickers to life against the greenery, and Rose shifts underneath him, surprised.

"Star Wars?"

He nods against her lap, sleepy, but not sleepy enough to miss the smell of Rose and sweat and outdoors that's enveloping him.

"I put the original trilogy on there a few months ago," his words are slurring, dripping from his mouth slowly. "What was that jail? With the umlaut in the name? And you said, how back on Earth, even prisoners get telly time?"

Rose's hand lands in his hair, brushing through it softly. "And you thought -- what? You'd record some for me?"

He turns his head gently, following the movement of her fingers and peering at the projection at the bushes, the words scrolling by. "Yeah. Sound, too, but maybe not out here. You can play it through the sonic though, hold it up to your ear so it's not too loud."

She slouches further into the log, getting comfortable, and her other hand snakes across his arm and shoulder to rest on his stomach, her palm warm against the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

"Nah, this is fine," she says, and he adjusts the sonic one more time, switching closed captioning on.

"Thanks, Doctor," she says when she realizes, and her voice is soft, lulling him to sleep.

Six and a half hours later, he wakes to a celebration on Endor, and shivers wracking his body.

"Doctor, _Doctor_ ," Rose sounds panicked above him, her hands turned awkwardly to cup his face, her eyes wide as she brings his gaze to hers.

He can't seem to focus on her properly, on anything, really, and his mind is feeding him snatches of detail.

The sun is setting.

Rose is here.

He is cold.

He was shot.

Oh. Well, that would explain it then.

"Doctor, come on, are you OK? What's wrong?"

She slips out from underneath him and he can hear the faint sound of fabric moving before something soft appears under his head. It's his coat, he thinks faintly.

Then Rose is above him again, kneeling by his side as he shakes with cold once more.

"Doctor?"

"Cold," he chatters out. "My body, the temperature regulation, it's offline to help me heal."

Rose nods and shifts back, gently moving the fabric bandage on his arm.

"It's gone," she says, awe in her voice.

"'Course, Time Lord," he slurs.

"Time Lord that sent himself into hypothermia or something," she grouses. "What can I do?"

He has faint memories of last night, of the warmth of being pressed up to Rose, and that should do it, give his body something to regulate against, he just ... he needs it everywhere, and quickly.

"It's not that. Not hypothermia. Last night," he mumbles. "When you were cold."

"Oh, OK, yeah," she says. "Does your arm still hurt?"

"No," he says. "Healed, like you said."

Rose reaches to the log, to where his wet shirt has been slowly drying. She grabs it and brings it to her mouth, wringing out a little bit of water, but there's not much left.

"Here," she says, "I'm gonna get more water, we'll heat it up with the sonic, you can drink something warm, and then we'll, uh, we'll cuddle."

He nods and throws a sloppy hand in the direction of where the wolf cub was last lying. "Take him," he mumbles, still shivering.

Rose bounds up quickly, stopping to dart back over and shove some berries she must've gotten from his coat and piled on a leaf toward him.

"Eat these, too, if you think that'll help," she says, popping a few in her mouth, and then she's darting through the bushes, the wolf on her heels.

It's hard to tell how much time has passed when she returns, but it's not enough to alarm him. Soon she's dropping back down to kneel at his side.

"We lucked out," she says. "Hunters must've made camp by the stream at some point. Found a mug and a couple of tea bags."

There's a rising sense of panic in him that Rose was anywhere near where the hunters were without him, but there's nothing to be done for it now and he focuses on the items Rose is holding in front of him -- a dingy mug and crumpled tea bags.

He zeroes in on the tag dangling from one of them.

"American," he grumbles, the faint disgust in his voice lost to a shiver.

"Gonna have to make do," Rose tells him and sets the bags and mug down. There's already water in it, and his shirt is once more lying wetly on the log, so they should have enough to get them through to their escape.

"Here," she says, securing the sonic in his hands, "make it so it'll heat up the water."

He does as told, fingers numb and tingling as he switches the setting and hands it back to her. He really needs to teach her how to set these things herself.

Rose points it at the water until the mug is steaming and then she dunks a tea bag in, steeping it absently a few times.

He lets his eyes close and Rose shakes him by the shoulder. "Hey, are you supposed to be sleeping?"

He shrugs. "Dunno, am I?"

" _Doctor_ ," she implores and his brain defogs at her tone.

"No," he says. "Probably not."

Rose scoots behind him, helping push him up until he's sitting with his back against the log.

"You can lie back down when you've finished your tea."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, giving her what he means as a cheeky grin.

A few minutes later, Rose passes him the mug and he drinks deeply and steadily, letting the warmth seep into his hands and his veins.

Guiltily he realizes he's finished most of it and he passes it back to her with a mumbled apology.

"It's fine," she says. "I'll make another cup."

He nods, slumping down so he can rest his head tipped back on the log as he listens to the soft sounds of Rose making tea.

As she works, he forces himself to eat a few of the berries, and the taste of them mingles not unpleasantly with the taste of the tea.

When she's done making the second cup, he watches her take a few solid sips and then eat more berries herself. Then she's standing, scrutinizing the ground and him where he sits.

With a decisive nod, she pulls her jumper over her head.

"Rose," he hisses, the sound broken and startled ... and something else.

"What? Body heat, right? I can't get as warm as you, like, on command, so I can't -- compensate or whatever for my clothes, _our_ clothes. So I need to get rid of them."

He stares at her, standing before him in her bra in the light from the moon that's just beginning to rise and can't think of a single thing to say.

"All right?" she finally asks, as his continues the smooth, pale contours of her skin. So much skin.

"All right," he says slowly.

"Good, now take your shirt off."

In the absence of the energy to protest, he again does as he's told, and when he removes his white t-shirt, Rose takes it.

She lays it, and her own shirt down top to bottom on the ground, arranging them blankets.

"We'll use your coat as a cover," she says when she notices him watching.

"Oh," he says. "Right."

Her fingers move next to the button of her jeans and she pauses for a moment to look at him again.

"Don't be weird, OK? Or if you're gonna be weird, make it for, like, the right reasons."

He's left to ponder that mystifying sentence as she toes off her shoes and shucks her jeans down her legs.

She steps out of them, arranging them alongside their shirts, and then looks at him expectantly, hands on her bare hips.

Her bra is dark gray, a charcoal color that seems intentional, and not just black that's faded from too many washings, and her knickers are striped, tiny green and white lines that are edged by lace at the waist and legs.

She looks beautiful, and if he's making it 'weird,' by looking at her like this, he's suddenly sure it's for the right reasons.

"Yours off, too, come on," she says, and extends her hand to help him stand. He's still cold, still not entirely out of danger, but he'd almost forgotten, what, with the tea, and Rose in her knickers, and all. But with the feel of her hand against his, so hot and alive, it comes crashing back, and a shudder shakes his body as he gets to his feet.

She gives him a sad smile and kneels in front of him, untying his shoelaces and helping him step out of his trainers.

His hands fall to the button of his trousers and she looks up at him and a wave of heat blankets him from an entirely different part of his mind. The thought of Rose kneeling in front of him as he undoes his trousers has been a source of heat for almost as long as he's known her.

Steadying himself on Rose's shoulders, they work together to get his trousers off and then she lays them down on their other clothes, folding them so the zipper is on the bottom and forming a makeshift pillow.

They both have their socks on still and when she stands in front of him once more, she toes his foot with her own, the cotton brushing together.

"I --" Rose interrupts herself, shaking her head to cut off the rest of her sentence.

"Yes?" he prods.

"Just ... it was always gonna be like this, wasn't it? Finally got you down to your pants and it's only because you're in danger."

He scrubs a hand across the back of his neck, feeling exposed for reasons that are simultaneously about his current state of undress and not.

"I like them, by the way," she adds. "Blue boxer briefs ... they're very you. I like the stripes."  

He looks down at his pants, the light blue alternating with the navy and his eyes skitter to her knickers of their own volition.

"We match," he says. "Sort of."

Her gaze dances between them, so much of their skin on such prominent display in the moonlight.

"Yeah," she says. "I think we do."

He shivers a bit again, shattering the moment, and Rose drops her gaze, apologetic and guilty. She lays herself down on the portion of the clothes farthest from the log and then gestures for him to take the empty spot.

He does, and she reaches down, grabbing his coat and blanketing them with it, making sure as much of him is covered as possible.

They lie side by side, flat on their backs on the narrow, makeshit bed, shoulders and arms brushing, but no other part of them touching.

"It should probably be a bit more than this," he says, hoping he doesn't sound like he's pressuring her.

"I know," she says, and then she's shifting to lie nearly on top of him, leg slung over both of his at the thigh, breasts pressed against his torso, one arm wrapped around his waist and the other pinned awkwardly between them. He fits his own free arm across as much of her back as he can reach, so they're wrapped up in each other and she settles her head into the hollow of his neck and shoulder, face nearly pressed into the skin there.

"Better?" she says softly.

"Yeah, much," he answers, watching down his nose at the way his breath ruffles her hair. "Thanks."

"What would you have done if I wasn't here?" Rose says after a moment, her voice thick with something that sounds like worry. "Would it have been -- could you have ... ?"

He moves to shrug, but stops when he realizes how the motion jostles her. "Maybe snuggled up to Wolfie over there, if he'd have let me. But I would've been all right, even if he didn't. It would have just taken longer to regulate my temperature, and would have probably tired me out a bit. This," he tightens his arm around her, "is much easier. And much nicer. Thank you."

She nods against him, the tip of her nose meeting his neck. "It's helping then?"

"Yep, already feel warmer. I don't have too far to go, not all the way to a human temperature or anything so inefficient."

"Yeah, us humans and our inefficiency," Rose snorts. "Add it to the list of problems. I'm not the one who got shot though."

"No, you weren't," he shifts until he can see her face and she can see his, even if the angles are awkward. It causes a lot of skin to slide against skin, and the satiny material of her bra; it's ... distracting.

"But it could've been," he continues. "You can be gone just like that."

She huffs against him, breath that smells like tea and berries blanketing him.

"Yeah, I know the risks, thanks," she says, and then pauses. "I'm willing to take them though."

The " _are you_?" hangs unspoken in the air between them.

It's a long moment of silence then. The sky is completely dark now except for the moon and some scattered stars, and he's cuddled up to Rose underneath all of it, both of them nearly naked.

So close to what he wants, and such a winding road to get here, and Rose still doesn't know where he stands.

Because he hasn't told her.

"I am, too," he finally says. "The risks -- they're ... worth it."

Rose rises up more fully, until they're looking at each other straight on.

"Yeah?"

He nods.

"Doctor, are we talking about the same thing?"

He's got more words for her, he'll always have words, and they said they'd talk and maybe that's what this is, but he doesn't think they're needed now, those words.

Instead, he raises his head, just lifting up an inch or two on his neck, but the movement is so deliberate that Rose is certain to get it.

She doesn't match him though, she stays perfectly still, her bare arms braced on his bare chest, and she waits.

His lips part as his head moves closer still and then his eyes slip shut, everything intentional, everything wrapped up in meaning and action and want, the same way they're wrapped up in his coat, in each other.

There's a sense of where her mouth is, of how much farther he'll need to go, and he's working to cross it when suddenly his lips meet hers.

Her lips are chapped and dry, but they're soft and they touch against his with a slight return of pressure, such a little thing, but so significant for the way it means she's here, she's participating, she wants this, too.

It's different from the kiss last night, that had felt illicit somehow, like they were sneaking it, not putting in the work for it, and hoping the universe was looking the other way, this feels purposeful, it feels like the start of something.

It, also, it needs to be said, feels much more intimate.

There are very few layers between them, only covering the most basic of areas, and the warmth they'd already been generating together seems to amplify exponentially as his lips work against Rose's.

He assumed, in some analytical part of his brain, that there would be a natural progression here, a swipe of his tongue against her bottom lip, maybe a little nip, a linearity humans tend to respect, but Rose has circumvented it all, shut down that part of his brain, and opened her mouth against his.

In one fluid movement, his tongue is slipping into her mouth, sliding against her own, the feel of it wet and hot and heady.

She lets him kiss her as he likes for several long moments, chasing his tongue with her own, playing with him, realigning the angles, as their mouths move against each other.

When his hands find her hips, it's to the feel of them moving, her leg slipping more fully over him until she's straddling him, her weight braced on one hand above his shoulder and the other fisted, pulling, scraping in his hair.

He tightens his fingers into the softness of her waist, thumbs dropping to edge the rise of her hipbones, pushing against the rounded, rigid angles of them covered by such smooth skin.

He's growing hard beneath her, blood pooling slowly and cock pinned uncomfortably, trapped against her inner thigh.

With a groan, he guides her by the hips until his erection can move between their bodies, her heat covering the base of his cock even through two layers of cotton.

Rose pulls her mouth from his at the feeling, dropping her forehead to his and panting as she rides his erection. She folds herself further down, until he's positioned more fully, and when he arches up into her, he must catch her just right because suddenly she's forming a soundless noise above him, jaw dropping open as her eyes screw shut.

"Jesus," she breathes, "I mean -- just, _fuck_."

He can't help the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips at that, the way she's already splintering slowly above him, fragments of words and noise and deeply pleasing sounds. He can't wait for more of it.

When she rubs against his erection again, it's him whose eyes slam shut now, she feels so good, even with their pants, and, god, he just wants to be inside of her.

Her mouth moves to his neck, kissing and licking and biting, and he shudders underneath her.

Rose levers back immediately, eyes wide in alarm.

"This is too much," she says, voice thick. "For you, I mean. Too much for you."

He shakes his head, letting a hand move to palm her breast through her bra.

"It's not, Rose, it's really not," his eyes are following the fingers he's tracing across the line of her bra and into her cleavage, but he stills them, meeting her gaze.

"I'd tell you," he insists.

She looks at him for a handful of wordless beats, perched on his thighs with her hands at her sides. His own hand still rests on her breast, and when another second passes, he goes to move it away, resigned, but her fingers move to stop him.

"You'd better," she says, keeping his hand pressed to her chest, his fingers uncurling until he can feel the strong, galloping rhythm of her heart beneath the skin. "You have to say, if it's too much, you have to say."

His eyes lock on her eyes, wide and glassy in the moonlight. "I will."

With that, she nods, scooting forward again until her hips meet his at an angle, his erection once more caged between them.

She drops her hand from his on her chest and he goes back to his exploration, his other hand joining in to peel the straps of her bra down her shoulders. He's about to make a move behind her, has started shifting his weight to his elbow to do it, and get at the clasp of her bra, when she reaches to her back and undoes it herself.

He helps her take the fabric off, dropping it soundlessly next to them, and he feels blood rushing in his ears, feels warmth tingling in every inch of his body, at the sight of Rose's breasts.

They're perfect and full, dusky pink nipples and smooth pale skin, and he's staring, admiring, gaping, and she grins at him.

"Ah, there's a bloke inside there after all," she says, tapping her index finger on his chest, between his hearts.

"Was there doubt?" he mumbles, but he's distracted, his hands are moving now, cupping one of her breasts in each of his hands, delighting in the way she rocks her hips against his when he pinches one of her nipples lightly. And then not so lightly.

She lets him play for a little while, testing bounciness and mouldability, reactions and retreats, all sorts of things that add up to him feeling Rose Tyler up on a forest floor. While they're being hunted. While they should be literally fearing for their lives.

It's enough to jar him out of the moment and he drops his hands, eliciting a disappointed sigh from Rose.

"We shouldn't," he says.

"Why?"

"Because they could be here any minute, we should -- prepare. To leave. We should prepare to leave," he says like he's trying to convince himself, and he is, because right now he doesn't want to stop, he doesn't want to prepare for anything that isn't being inside of Rose, finally.

"When are we supposed to leave?"

He looks at the sky, eyes tracking the position of the moon. "Few hours?"

Rose laughs. "And you, what? Wanna sit here and stare at each other until then?"

His gaze retreats from the stars, taking in her body, situated on top of his.

"Could think of worse things to stare at," he shrugs.

"All right, give me ... ten minutes. Five if you're really in a hurry, and then we can stare at each other until it's time to run, all right?"

He squints at her, making his cock jump between them and earning him a short giggle from Rose. "Let's take 15," he says.

"Right."

With that, she drops back down to kiss him again, his arms winding around her back, skin lined up with skin, the hair on his chest and the softness of her breasts and 15 _centuries_ could never be enough.

She sets up a rhythm against his hips, and he meets it, helping her rock back and forth against his erection until she can't kiss him anymore, pulling away to make soft, encouraging sounds and pant into his shoulder.

He angles himself so his mouth can get at her neck, licking a wet path there, sucking little kisses that break Rose's rhythm and set her writhing without finesse against him. He works a hand between them, back to her breasts, but it's less exploratory and more urgent now, he just wants to be as close to her as possible, as soon as possible.

Above him, she finally gets her bearings, and her face at his shoulder turns into her mouth at his neck, his collarbone, his chest, abdomen, hipbones, until she's disappeared entirely under the blanket of his coat, a Rose-shaped lump of fabric he can't see, but can feel.

The way she noses through the hair below his bellybutton, the way her tongue traces the waistband of his pants, and then her fingers are curling into the elastic, shifting it down and pausing for him to arch his hips when his erection impedes her progress.

He feels her scoot his boxer briefs down, raising herself up to move them, until they're caught behind her at his knees. He raises a sock-clad foot to catch them, jostling Rose and getting a grip to push them the rest of the way off.

He expects her to come back up now, maybe a hand on his cock and a few little strokes.

Instead, in a movement so fast he can't track it, her hand grips the base of his cock, and her mouth engulfs the rest of it.

He lets out a sharp, startled sound, and then a long, slow _ugggh_ as she sucks at him, tightening her hand and working her tongue around the head of his erection.

It's amazing, and a mad, selfish part of him wants to just let her keep going. The encouraging noises she's making around his cock indicate she might not be opposed to it.

But he forces himself to move his hands from where they'd been bunching into the clothing below him and into her hair instead. It's a moment, he swears, only a moment, where he just lets them rest against her head, following the movements she's making around his cock, and, really, he'll get her back up here any second now.

After ... several ... seconds, he finally tightens his fingers in the strands, a soft, upward pressure that she follows to release his cock and move up his body, her head popping out the top of his coat and her hair in a riot.

"Hello," he says, breathless and warm.

"Hello," she answers him with a bright grin across her wet, pink mouth.

"Did you get your knickers off while you were down there?"

She gives him a look like he's thick. "No," she says slowly, and then shrugs, "but I can just move them."

And with that, he feels her hand below the coat, brushing his erection as she moves her knickers out of the way.

"You can help, you know," she says, cheeky and amused.

"Oh! Oh, right," he's not working in top form, and if she presses it, he'll remind her he's been shot, but it's really _this_ situation that's overwhelming. The bullet has been absorbed by his system, the chill chased away by Rose's warmth. All that's left now is for him to drop his hand to his erection, moving it to where Rose has her knickers pulled aside.

She's wet, oh god, she's so _wet_ , and he lets go of himself for a moment to dance his fingers there, slipping inside her briefly and then pulling back to ring her clit with the moisture he's gathered.

" _Doctor_ ," Rose's voice is breathy and broken and wanting and, oh, fuck, oh god.

"Now, now, now," he's not even sure who's speaking, just that suddenly his hand is back on his cock, and he's guiding himself to where Rose is raised up above him.

He positions himself and arches into her an inch and then Rose is sitting up, bracing her hands on his chest, as the coat tumbles off her shoulders to pool on his legs.

&&.

The Doctor is inside of her.

Warm and alive beneath her, and hard and perfect between her legs and, god, she could not have predicted this, not like this, not in a million years.

She could've _imagined_ it though, _has_ imagined it, and her own busy fingers back on board the TARDIS were nothing like this, even at their most satisfying.

It's enough that she pauses for a moment, just enjoying the feel of him, the pleasant fullness of his erection, stretching her and filling her and, fuck, she wants to move, she wants more, _needs_ more.

The Doctor has the same idea, fingers clenched at her hips and urging her with subtle movements at his wrists.

Rose follows along, allowing him to guide her up and then back down, slow steady movement, her knickers with it, rising up more and then rising up less and the friction's not there, not quite, but it doesn't matter because everything just feels so -- fucking -- _good_.

Up and down and in and out and, god, yes, yeah, god, and the a Doctor seems to be waiting on her, his eyes scrunched in concentration and his teeth bared as she rides him in a fluctuating rhythm.

It's getting frustrating, just a little bit, and she begins angling her hips on the down slide, trying to catch her clit, trying to create friction, catch him or cotton or _something_. Then she's bending at the waist, lying on top of him, chest to chest, with her arms braced on the ground above his shoulders, fingers curling into the cotton of his folded-up suit jacket where it's lying as a pillow.

The new position is -- oh, _god_ \-- it's exactly what she needed, short little jostling strokes that keep him mostly inside of her, keep a steady, rubbing pressure on her clit, amplified by the fabric of her knickers, and he's so bloody _helpful_ beneath her, encouraging words in her ear, how beautiful she looks, how great she feels, how much he's wanted this, and then his hands on her hips, her back, her bum, a tight grip that he matches with his mouth against her neck, and then finally, "Rose, _please_ ," and she comes, clinging tightly to him in a haphazard pile, everywhere she can reach, greedy clawing fingers and fuck, fuck, fuck.

He works her through it, scratching light lines up and down her back that send her skittering into shivers of aftershocks, eased along by his mouth back on her neck, his warm tongue and wet, sucking pressure.

When the last of it subsides, she pushes herself back up until she's sitting upright on him, hands once more braced on his chest. 

He gives her a slow smile, flexing his hands against her waist. "Always thought I'd drive the first time," he says.

"Yeah?" she says, returning his smile, pleased at his admission -- that he'd thought about it. 

He nods.

"Next time," she says. "Tonight, just ... show me. Help me.”

His hands tightening again, he guides her into a rhythm of long, fast strokes, a steady up-down that's making her thighs burn, but also sending heat coiling low in her abdomen again, arousal beginning to build at a fast pace. 

Two of his fingers find her clit through her knickers, then he’s shoving them farther out of the way, rubbing erratically, trying to give her another release as he chases his own, and the thought of that alone, it's enough to make her commit to it. 

Images of more of this in their future are sloshing in her mind and spilling over, the console room, her bedroom, his bedroom, the galley, against a wall, from behind, him on top, him in charge, and oh god, oh fuck, and then he's grunting beneath her, an artless, gorgeous sound that she latches onto, fingers curling into the skin of his chest as she follows him over, quieter than before, but still buzzing and hot and wonderful. 

It's enough to make her collapse on top of him, nose scrunched into his neck and legs extended, flung out to the sides of his while she rests most of her weight on him, and she's only moving if he tells her to, or possibly never again. 

His arms wind around her back, squeezing her to him in a hug much different than they've had before, and she's embarrassed at the way it makes tears well up a bit in her eyes, a blanket of emotion momentarily overwhelming her. 

She's able to fight it back, it was silly anyway, but there's just -- there was so much before this, all that time with the old him, so much time on the TARDIS, and then tonight, adrenaline and hormones and he could've died or something. He was _shot_. 

Pressing a kiss to the soft skin of his neck, to the side of his Adam's apple, she musters up the strength to move a bit, a sigh escaping as he slips from her, knickers moving back into place, and then she's tucking up into his side his arm around her shoulders and her head pillowed on his chest. 

"When do we have to go?" she mumbles into his skin, her breath tickling his chest hair. 

"Couple hours yet," he says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "You should sleep."

She nods and her body sags against his. 

"We really shouldn't have done that," he says quietly, almost like it was to himself. 

At that, she freezes, tensing. 

"No, no," he rushes to reassure her. "I just want to stay like this, and we can't tonight."

Her muscles relax. "Next time," she says sleepily.

"Yeah," he agrees, and now he sounds content. "Next time."

It seems like seconds later when he's jostling her awake gently, hand gripping her arm as he shakes her softly. 

"Rose, wake up," he says. "We have to get dressed."

She's off him in a flash, so quickly that his eyes widen, taking in the expanse of her body, naked save for knickers and socks. 

He’s looking at her with such unmistakable longing, _want_ , that she can’t keep back the smile.

“Next time,” she says once more, and with a definitive nod, he stands and they begin putting their clothes back on. 

It’s quick work, and the Doctor seems alert, seems completely fine actually, but she can’t help asking.

“Are you gonna be OK for this?”

“Yep! Running, that’s what we’re best at, right?”

Rose gives him a grin, one with tongue, more assured now that his fixating on it is exactly what it looks like. “Oh, I don’t know, seems like we have something else we’re best at.”

“What? Oh, _ohhhh_. Why, Rose Tyler, I think you might just be right. But, brilliant like we are? Can be best at two things, I think.”

He’d left his shirt on the log, just redressing in his t-shirt, suit, and coat, and they take a few minutes to finish off the berries and drink a bit of water, wrung out into the dingy mug. Then the Doctor’s sticking his arm, and the sonic, through the bushes. 

A few readings later, and they’re tumbling out of the clearing and back into the forest proper. The wolf cub, who had made himself scarce earlier, is suddenly at their heels again, nudging at Rose and then the Doctor, pushing them in the direction the Doctor’s already leading them.

It’s either very late night or very early morning, Rose can’t tell, and normally she would ask, but everything’s so quiet now, in the dark, that she doesn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to themselves, and anyway, they’ll be running soon, better save her breath.

They walk a few moments more, and then the Doctor grabs her hand, shoving the sonic into her free one. 

“If we run straight, we’ll reach the boat,” he says. “And if you lose me, if I lose you, you keep running, Rose. I want you to take the sonic, I’ve programmed coordinates and a system override for the ship. It’ll get you back to the TARDIS. Or, well, _land_ , and then it’ll help you walk it.”

“Yes, sir,” she says and he turns to sparkle at her with a cheeky grin.

“Next time,” he says, and winks. 

Then he’s off like a shot into a run, tugging her along into a pace she can maintain as they weave through the trees, following the wolf cub, and the Doctor’s own sense of direction. 

They’ve been running for what feels like ages when there’s a clatter behind them, to Rose’s right, and then there’s the heavy sound of boots hitting ground, of men shouting. 

The Doctor doesn’t slow at all, and won’t allow her to either, both of them pumping harder, running faster, and she feels each breath of air like a stab to the chest. She’s flagging, falling, slowing, when suddenly the trees give way to shore and the boat is only 50 yards ahead. 

Farther down the beach, there’s a large wolf, a grown wolf, a _mother_ wolf, and the cub barrels toward her, the larger wolf howling long and loud, and then cutting off abruptly to look right at Rose as the cub joins her. There’s something familiar there, more than just knowing the wolf’s a she, but it’s only a split second, and Rose can’t parse it. 

It’s adrenaline that takes her the rest of the way, flooding her veins, and the Doctor looks momentarily surprised, but doesn’t hesitate to keep up. They clamber onto the dock and into the boat, the Doctor grabbing the sonic back to cut ties to the ropes and anchor keeping them in place. 

Behind them, there’s a shout, all four hunters emerging from the woods, pistols drawn and shots firing. 

They’re frantic, aimless, hollering, and the Doctor shoves her to the floor, pressing on her back to indicate she should stay in place, as he tumbles toward the controls.

The shots are getting nearer, the yelling louder, and there’s the smell of gunpowder and sweat in the night air, the faint sound of the Doctor sonic-ing something across the deck, and the wolf, howling again. 

Suddenly the boat lurches into movement, an unsteady motion that pitches them out to sea in a rush of foam that sprays up the side of the boats to splatter onto the deck. They’re moving so fast, faster than Rose can ever remember a boat going, and they aren’t slowing at all, faster, faster, faster as the noise of pistols and angry men fades behind them, lost to the rush of water by them. 

Rose turns onto her back, staring up at the sky, and then suddenly the Doctor is above her, his head blocking her vision and backlight by bright moonlight. 

“And _that_ was how you do a getaway,” he says, extending his hand to help her stand and then pulling her into a tight hug. It’s hard to get her feet with the boat moving as fast as it is though, so, after a moment, she drops back down to her bum, sitting cross legged on the deck, and the Doctor joins her. 

“What’ll happen now?” 

He shrugs. “Systems will shut down soon, stop this speed because it’s killing the engine. Then we’ll float for a little bit, pick back up at a normal speed. We should make it to the TARDIS by — oh — sunrise? And then a quick pop off to the Shadow Proclamation, they’ll pick our hunters, and then, I don’t know. Chips for lunch?”

“That’s it?” she says, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. 

“That’s it?” the Doctor sounds shocked. “Rose, I was shot, we huddled naked for warmth, and then we legged it while being shot at _again_. I don’t know what more you could be looking for this time.”

He’s right, of course, they’d ticked several of their usual adventure boxes, and added a few more besides, and it’s those additions she wants to focus on now.

“How long until the power goes —” she’s barely finished her sentence when everything goes quiet around the them, the boat sailing slowly into a stop. 

“Right,” she says. “So floating a bit, that’s this time sorted. Now, Doctor, I believe we said something about…next time?”

He grins.

“Yes, Rose Tyler, we did.”


End file.
